hard to feel good about a country that still had a segregated army.
It would be a world of lesser evils and uncertain victories, in infinite shades of grey. And after the Nazis he supposed that wasn't so bad.
They all heard the spade strike something hard, and Nikoladze gave him a questioning look.
'It might be Gusakovsky's gun,' Russell suggested. 'I buried it with the papers.'
The soldier put his spade aside, and started sifting through the earth with his hands. He handed up the gun, and then the oilskin parcel. Nikoladze took the papers from their wrapping and quickly riffled through them. They looked stained at the edges, but otherwise undamaged, and his face seemed to sag with relief.
He strode off towards the car without a word.
Russell turned to Shchepkin, and asked him the obvious question: 'So will the bastard let me leave?'
'Oh yes,' the Russian assured him. 'We never waste an asset.'
Russell smiled. As far as he knew, the gulags were full of them. But it didn't seem the moment to say so.
